


Burns Twice as Fast

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Decisions, Blackwall and Dorian slowly eroding each other's mutual antipathy away, Directly post completion of 'Call me Imshael', F/M, Fluff and Angst, Illnesses, Mid-Canon, POV Third Person Limited, Poor sick quizzy, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fight doesn't break out until Michel de Chevin's body is found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burns Twice as Fast

The fight doesn't break out until Michel de Chevin's body is found. Iskia can tell that Blackwall isn't pleased with her, hasn't been since she dealt with Imshael, but that alone's nothing of real import. And he seemed willing to let it pass up. At least up until the words 'choice spirit' came back to haunt them.

He doesn't let it get in the way of work; they pore over maps of the quarry, charting patrol movements and marking spots where the hostages are likely to be. But when they break for the day, agreeing they need another set of reports to be certain, he goes off to assist the Inquisition forces making Suledin Keep livable once more. He makes it clear that he does not need her help with this task.

Iskia does not follow him. She will not chase him. She wants to chase him. She stops herself from chasing after him. Clearly he does not want to be with her at the moment. And she is far too cold to think more clearly than that. Here in the Emprise, she fears she will never be warm again. There is something about the feeling of snow sinking falling down the tops of her boots that makes her heart pound so heavily she worries it will break her chest open. But she did nearly lose her toes in the flight from Haven. Even now, she barely has any feeling in them. It should be no surprise that snow makes her nervous.

Still, it seems she never gets warm at all here, no matter how many pairs of socks she wears, how heavy a cloak she wears over her armour. She's bundled up enough that she can barely walk, let alone work her spells, and still she's cold. She makes her way to the room she's claimed for herself to see what she can do. There's not a proper bed in here, so it's barely better than a tent, but at least the fireplace is big.

She's panting by the time she gets the fire going, and even still swathed in wool and silk, it only seems to help a little bit. She leans against the wall, tugs off her mittens, and rubs her hands together. She can't tell if her fingers are shivering or if it's just the regular tremor flaring up again. How can it be so cold here?

Iskia doesn't know how long she's been leaning there, trying to warm up, when she hears a knocking on the doorframe behind her. She turns, and there he is. But he never knocks. She furrows her brow, but says, "Blackwall. Is everything-- how are-- is everything getting set up well?" She presses a hand to her temple. How is she supposed to think straight when it's so cold in here?

Blackwall leans against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest. "Michel de Chevin was a good man. A good chevalier. And you spent his life-- for what? For _virgins_? For a rune? I hope you think it was worth it." He's never looked at her so coldly, not that she can recall. Even when he didn't want her to save him.

And yet, what is there for her to say? What is there she can tell him? "If I'd known what would happen," she says, then shakes her head. "I don't know. If there was a chance to end it peacefully? Yes, I wanted to take it. We were _all_  exhausted. I didn't want to chance once of us getting killed. Not even Solas, even with what he said to you. I, I mostly expected the spirit would betray us no matter what I said." She rubs her face with her left hand, hoping the tingle will warm it some. "I didn't think he'd have any virgins. And he didn't. What do I know what a virgin looks like? What do you _want_  me to say? That I'm sorry he died for-- for my lack of forethought? I am! You know I am. You know I don't treat that sort of thing lightly."

She is babbling now, and only realizes it halfway through the last sentence. She rubs her face again, ignoring the sweat beading on her forehead. She leans against the wall, takes a heavy breath. "It would help if I could think straight in this cold. Maybe I would have realized... is that fire even still going? It's still so cold in here."

Blackwall peers toward her, caught mid-breath, then closes the gap between them with three swift steps. Iskia is slumping against the wall when he scoops an arm around the small of her back, presses the back of his other hand to her forehead. "Oh, Maker, you're burning up. Why didn't you say something?"

Iskia barely feels him holding her, through all her layers of clothing. "I'm fine," she says. "Just cold, that's all. We just need to finish up here. The sooner we're back in Skyhold the better. I thought you were angry with me?" His face blurs as she looks up at him, no matter how hard she squints.

"You're not fine," he says, pulling her from the wall and setting her down on the bedroll, atop their blankets. She finds she doesn't have the energy to try and stop him. But this bit about burning is foolishness. She rests her forehead on his chest, and hopes he can't hear her teeth chattering. She's barely put her head down when he leans her back, looks at her face more carefully. "You're white as a sheet. Even for you. How were you still standing? No, don't try to answer."

"I'm telling you, I'm fine," says Iskia. Certainly she doesn't need all four of him looking down at her with that look of abject worry on his face. She tries to push herself up, to get back to her feet and show him just how fine she is, but somehow the clever bastard replaced her arms and legs with noodles while she wasn't looking. Then when she presses her back to the wall for support, she carefully fits pieces together. "I'm not fine, am I?"

"No, you're not," says Blackwall. He leans down to kiss her forehead. "If I leave you alone, will you promise to stay here? I don't imagine Dorian's got any talent for healing, but there must be someone coming up from the camp who can look at you." His hands stay on her arms, squeezing a few times.

She comes very close to objecting. But there's not even anything she really should be doing right now, is there? She wets her lips, three times. "Be discreet," she says instead. "It won't help anyone to have it put around everywhere. I don't feel that badly, honestly."

Blackwall sighs, and sits down beside her. He lifts one foot, putting it onto his lap, and then unbuckles the boot. With one tug he gets it off, then does the same for the other boot. Only then does he peel away the three thick layers of knitted-silk socks, tossing all six onto the ground beside the boots. Both hands ply at one foot, away from her numbed toes, and he says, "Promise me."

"I promise," she says, finding her tongue. Her feet feel less cold in his hands. No, they feel quite warm as he rubs them, firm and steady. Too warm? Perhaps he's right about her being fevered. "Could you stay here, instead?" She must be feeling sick if she's asking, not telling. Or perhaps his worry is infectious. She lifts her head, turns it toward his face.

"I should find someone as soon as possible," he says, squeezing the balls of her feet, one in each hand. "Don't worry. I'll be back as soon as I do." He sets her feet down, and tucks them up underneath the blankets. He looks her over for another moment, then unwinds her scarf, pulls her arms out of her coat. She doesn't even try to stop him, or when he lifts her enough to get the coat away entirely. He leaves her dressed otherwise. "Just stay put, love."

Iskia's so hot beneath his hands as he leans her just so she won't fall over. He gives her as reassuring a smile as he can, but he doesn't know if it works. She lifts a hand to his cheek, fingers tangling in his beard. Any other day and he would stay here with her, for as long as she needs, but he doesn't dare let her get any worse. He lifts her hand away, lowers it to her lap, then he rises. He is at the door when she calls out to him.

"I didn't mean for him to die," she says. She puts far too much obvious effort in looking directly at him. "Truly, I didn't. Don't hate me for it, please. I'm sorry about the virgins. Come back. Please? As soon as you can? Don't leave me here." He's never seen her look so helpless. He's certain that if she wasn't nearly incoherent with sickness, she'd never let anyone see her like this. Not even him. She'd certainly never apologize, not for anything.

Is she truly that worried? Does she have that little faith in him, after everything? Or is it just her fever talking? "I'll be back," he says. "I promise." He shuts the door behind him. Now just to find someone who knows where the nearest camp healer is. He hopes it's nothing a good dose of boiled elfroot and embrium won't clear up, but seeing her in this state does nothing but bring up painful memories.

Blackwall stalks through the keep, telling himself that Iskia is no frail little girl, who never breathed right in the first place, who withered away in front of him. And the last thing he wants to think of when he looks at her is his sister. She will be fine. She will be fine.

He nearly walks straight into Dorian. "Ah! What's the hurry?" The mage dusts himself off, falling in to walk beside him. "You look like you got into a fight with a stormcloud, and lost. Is it still what happened with the spirit?"

Blackwall doesn't understand what in the world Iskia sees in the man, but she's so adamant on traveling with the both of them that he's almost become able to tolerate Dorian. Almost. "It's I-- the Inquisitor. I suppose you knowing any healing magic would be too much to hope for? She's taken ill. Been ignoring it for long enough for it to get bad, by my guess." He stops walking, and just sighs.

"Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later," says Dorian, stopping with him. "I'm surprised it took this long, really. Unfortunately, I can brew a potion in a pinch, but healing is not one of my many gifts. Looking for a healer, then?"

"I am," says Blackwall, and resumes walking. Damn this keep for being so big, and damn the disorganization that inevitably comes of needing to occupy such a large space. "If she hadn't sent Solas away--"

"I rather thought she did that for _your_  sake."

"He said nothing I didn't deserve," says Blackwall. The inevitable truth. And if she hadn't sent him back to Skyhold, he wouldn't be running around a half-abandoned keep looking for anyone who knew the first thing about fixing these sorts of ills. "She didn't need to send him off on my account."

"Oh, for--" says Dorian. "You two really deserve each other, do you know that?"

"And what is _that_  supposed to mean?"

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "She's running herself into the ground because it seems asking for help doesn't occur to her even for a second. And when someone tries to spare _you_  even a bit of pain, you go and object like that. It's not going to kill either of you to take a _little_  bit of help every now and again. Quite the opposite, apparently."

Blackwall just grunts. The first is nothing he hasn't thought before. The second is downright ridiculous. Solas had every right to let out on him like that. And if Iskia hadn't demanded the apostate march right back to Skyhold the minute the keep was empty, he would surely know how to help her. "She shouldn't have done it."

"You silly lummox, she did it because she loves you."

"Does she?" asks Blackwall, slowing to a halt once more. He presses one curled hand up against the wall. "She's certainly never said so. And she's got a strange way of showing it, sometimes."

Dorian just shakes his head. "What, the bit about getting showered with virgins?"

"Not just that. The whole sorry mess."

"Ah," says Dorian. "She's a pragmatic woman. We both know that, and it secured the keep safely. I can't say what happened after enthused me, no. But I don't think even she could have forseen that. Particularly if she's as far under the weather as you say."

"Perhaps not," says Blackwall, resuming the search. "Still leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

"I don't pretend to know a great deal about relationships such as the two of you have," Dorian says, following him still. Oh, that doesn't _stop_  him, of course not. "But I suspect neither do you. And I'm quite certain she doesn't, either. What I _do_  know is that I wish someone looked at me the way she looks at you. And I _don't_  mean when she's giving you bedroom eyes. No, I don't question that she loves you. Not for a second."

Blackwall sighs. In the end, it's really not about if she loves him or not, is it? It's about how much that love _means_  to her. And if she won't even say the words... but she's happiest when she doesn't, isn't she? When there's no need to say anything at all. "She's a... frustrating woman," he says, after they pass through a corridor. He can think of a laundry list of people he'd rather talk to about this than Dorian, but none of them are as close to her as he is.

"Oh, that, I'll believe," says Dorian. "I really wouldn't put too much stock into the virgins business. You know that's how she is. Everyone in Skyhold knows that's how she is. It's just talk."

That much is true, and she's never tried to hide it. Not the easiest thing to deal with all the same. Of course, given the option, he'd rather not have any of this out in public. But Blackwall knows full well that much is entirely unavoidable. He grunts.

"And as for Solas, well, _let_  her protect you for once," says Dorian, then points. "Ah, is that the medic over there? Come on, let's get our esteemed Herald a seeing-to."

* * *

"Young lady, you've made this far worse on yourself than it had to be," says the healer, removing several vials from her case. Iskia still sits propped up against the wall, but stripped down to her smallclothes for the healer to look her over. "If you'd seen me or someone as soon as you started to feel poorly, you'd still be on your feet right now. You're not doing anybody any good neglecting yourself until you can't stand anymore."

Blackwall leans against the wall, watching the healer thoroughly look over Iskia. The way she doesn't try and object to the healer's ministrations in the slightest makes him worry, but the healer seems more annoyed than concerned.

"There was..." says Iskia. But she starts over, saying instead, "I was busy. Things needed to be done. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't be here at all if I'd done that." She lifts her whole head to turn it directly at the healer. "Just... just fix it, there's a quarry full of templars we need to deal with right away. I can't just sit here. Too much to do."

"I've done everything magic is going to do for you," says the healer, adding a jar to the small pile of potions. "What you need right now to help it along is these potions, this poultice, and above all else , _bed rest_. You drink one of the little bottles every morning, and a spoonful of the big one in a cup of tea _three_  times a day until it's gone. The poultice on your forehead every day when you wake up and before you go to sleep. And _no_  strenuous activity until you've used all of it. I trust you'll make sure she follows these instructions, because I doubt she will." This last over her shoulder to Blackwall.

"The whole little bottle in the morning. Spoon of the big in tea, three times. Poultice in the morning and at night. No marching back out into the field, climbing up on top of things just to see what's on the other side. Got it," says Blackwall. "If she sticks to this, she'll be fine?" He pushes off the wall to gather up the unpleasantly extensive collection of medicines and move them on top of their packs.

"Assuming she sticks to it," says the healer. "And it sounds like you've got your work cut out for you. I'll be going back and forth between the camp and here until someone gets in from Skyhold. If something happens, you should be able to find me. If you can get her to eat something substantial regularly, that would help too. I don't expect miracles out of a half-inhabited keep, though. But being all skin and bones isn't helping the Herald any."

"I'm still here," says Iskia. She moves her arms as though to push herself up, but she either decides against it or fails entirely. "I know how to take care of myself. I'll be fine. I _am_  fine. More or less."

"It's that attitude that put you like this in the first place, Inquisitor," says the healer, pausing only to pour the contents of yet another potion down her throat. Iskia drinks it all in one go at least, only coughing a little at the end. "Sleeping when you're dead is _not an ideal_. If you put yourself into an early grave solely because you're too stubborn to relax, what will all the rest of us do?"

Iskia closes her eyes, and sighs. "I won't promise to get more rest. Or to eat better. But if I feel like I might be sick again, I'll say something sooner. Will that do?"

Frankly, Blackwall's surprised she even gave that much. He sighs.

The healer packs up her bags. "No, but I don't much have time to stand over you. I know you've a great deal of responsibilities, Inquisitor. But you need to think of yourself a little, too. For everyone's sake, if not yours."

Iskia raises a hand to her face, misses the first time, then manages to successfully rub her forehead on the second. "I think of myself too much as it is. But I will consider your words."

Blackwall waits for the healer to leave before kneeling beside Iskia, taking up her hands in his. "Maker's balls, Iskia," he says, once she looks at him. He squeezes her sweaty hands tightly. "I wish you'd stop frightening me like this. One day you'll go too far, push yourself too hard."

Iskia blinks slowly, takes a heavy breath. "Listen to me, Blackwall. _Thom_ ," she quivers at the shoulders when she forces out the name she never uses, the name he still wishes was gone forever. It makes him flinch. "I'm just sick enough to think saying this is a good idea. I'm never going to stop scaring you. I'm never going to stop hurting you. I'm always going to do things that are going to scare you, or hurt you, or make you angry. I don't... I don't know how to be any other way. I don't know how to do the things that need doing without hurting _myself_ , and you're like a part of me. You... you remind me that I know how to feel things. Good things. I mean. I'm sorry. I'm bad at this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Even when I try to keep anyone from dying, they die. Please don't--"

Blackwall exhales and puts her hands down. He reaches out, carefully pulls her close up against him. "I can't hate you, love. I'm not pleased with what you did. But it won't make me hate you. I'm here. I'm still here." Maker, but she's hot in his arms. Is she even going to remember anything she says when the fever passes? His fingers stroke through her tangled hair, straightening it out slowly. Should he even be this close to her right now? No, the healer would have said if it was catching. And he's never gotten sick easily.

"You're still here," she echoes, fingers reaching up, finding his beard. "I don't know why. Whenever I try to make things better, bad things keep happening too. It's so hard not to give up. Just want to close my eyes and..." Iskia shudders in his arms, and her eyes pull open wider, as if to fend off her fears.

"But you keep trying," Blackwall says quietly, right into her ear. He curls his arms just so, holding her steady, and keeps talking just like that. "You do good, too. You mean to do good. And you'll keep doing good. No matter what you tell yourself, you _are good_. I see that in you. Like you saw in me."

Iskia's eyes water as he speaks. "No one has ever..." she says hoarsely. She blinks the tears loose to fall down her cheeks. "You mean that. You really mean that."

"I do."

Her lips work silently for a while; he can't tell what she's trying to say. She coughs twice before she says, "I don't-- I don't know how to love another person. But I'm never letting you go." Iskia slumps in his arms when she finishes her sentence.

 _Maker_. Blackwall lowers her to the bedroll, eases her down. Sweating less already after whatever spells the healer worked. He kisses her cheek, untangles her arms. The blankets he pulls up around her, tucks her in, making sure the blankets are good and close around her. Might be a good time for that poultice the healer left.

Blackwall stands up, careful not to disturb Iskia, and he sighs.


End file.
